Art Block
by GreenWithAwesome
Summary: In the dead of the night, Magnus hears a ruckus in Alex's room, and goes to investigate. But only because he wants her to shut up so he can sleep. Totally not because he wants to see her. Nope. Oneshot. Fierrochase.


It wasn't like I _wanted_ to knock on Alex's door. Nope. Totally not that.

Look, when it's three in the morning, you can hardly sleep anyway, and you can hear the raucous sounds of smashing down the hallway of your hotel room, then you do kind of get the urge to slip out of bed in your pyjamas to investigate.

So that's exactly what I did. But not because I wanted to see Alex.

The knock rang out against the quiet walls of the nineteenth floor. I was surprised none of my other hallmates had woken from the noises. TJ should be out here, grumbling like someone's broken an important peace treaty. Halfborn Gunderson would jump into a vigilant stance, wielding his axe, whereas Mallory Keen would literally kick her door down with the brute force of her shins, swearing in Gaelic. Glad I don't know Gaelic.

But today, it was soft. The corridor was dark, but there was a tiny bar of light crawling across the floor from the gap under Alex's door.

The knock caused Alex to go dead quiet (hah. Get it? Dead? … No? Okay…), before she opened the door.

Also in the Hotel Valhalla issued pyjamas, the green silk embroidered with the _HV_ initials, Alex's hair was a mess. It shadowed her eyes, one turning a darker brown, the other a swirling amber. The brightness that flooded from her room to the corridor was harsh enough to make me squint, but even so, it was a warm, nightly, orange glow, as if she'd only lit candles.

I spied her hands, too. They were caked in dust, and droplets of water dripped from her fingernails. She ran a hand through her hair, apparently absent to the fact that her head now looked like a lawn with a light dusting of snow.

"Magnus," she grumbled. "What do you want?"

I leant to the side. Yep. Her hands were covered in dust because she'd been smashing pots. Shards glittered from the floor and decorated the wall from the impact like the world's most abstract art gallery. Her pottery wheel was also slowing to a stop, so obviously she'd been working as she obliterated pots, too.

I pulled my hands together like they were magnetised. Something churned in my stomach. Nerves? Impossible. Butterflies? Definitely not. Concern? No way. I was only going to Alex's door to tell her to shut up.

But instead of something snarky, I said in a small voice, "Are… you all right?"

She cocked a grin, but it didn't match the tired bags under her eyes. "Magnus Chase? Worried for me? You sure you aren't an imposter?"

I stuck out my tongue. "Yeah, yeah. It's only because your Pot Smash Derby is loud enough to wake all the _einherjar_ in the whole hotel."

Her eyes slanted to the carnage behind her, and her smirk dropped. "Oh, yeah, sorry. I'm fine. I'm…" Her eyes darted back and forth, searching for the right words. "I'm just a bit frustrated, is all." She looked back at me. "You ever heard of art block?"

I wasn't a very arty kid. The most artistic I had ever been was when my mom would bring finger painting sets on our hikes, and together we'd splotch our fingers in the green and pretend our paintings rivalled Monet. Ever since then, the best I'd drawn was the stick men all over my science homework. But I had heard of art block – I did know what that was, but I'd never experienced it.

Alex must have read my expression. "Hmm. Well…" she turned back, staring at her now still pottery wheel. "Art block is when your creative juices stop flowing, and everything you make… just seems cruddy."

I followed her gaze. There was a wedge of white clay on the top of the pottery wheel, and it was obvious a set of hands had worked through it, but it hadn't taken any particular shape yet.

"And… destroying all your other work will help get rid of art block?"

Alex shrugged. "No, but it helps channel my frustration."

For a while, I didn't know what to say. How do you help a struggling artist regain their motivation? It wasn't like I'd ever been in a similar situation.

Alex didn't offer me the chance to reply, and instead, heaved a sigh and widened her door. "Do you… want to come in?"

Tomorrow was Thursday, and therefore, the day when dragons were unleashed into the arena. I would need my strength, and no doubt, so would Alex, but… I was certain ten or so minutes chat wouldn't hurt. I was still too awake to sleep anyway.

So I stepped into Alex's room, careful to watch where my slippers treaded. My feet were more protected that Alex's bare feet, but I didn't like to take my chances that some random pottery shard would pierce the fabric and impale me like a toothpick through a canapé.

Alex shut the door and went to sit by the pottery wheel again with her back to me. The tattoo of the intertwining snakes was stark against her skin, but in the buttery light, it was hardly noticeable against her straying black hair. Stretching her hands, she pressed the clay to the wheel and spun the wheel, moulding it into a smoother log-shape. Like a tiny vase.

"I take it you can't sleep either," I said, my voice croaky in the silence.

"That's right," said Alex, but her focus remained solely on the pottery wheel. It spun faster in time with the beats of her foot pumping the pedal. "And when I can't sleep, I just start making pots, but…"

She sat back sharply and growled. The pot was in the egg-shape now, but obviously, there was something wrong with it that I couldn't see.

"This stupid pot just won't— _ugh_."

I smirked. "A bad workman blames his tools."

She cocked a terrifying smirk back. "Work _woman_." She lasered her gaze onto the pot. "Besides, _you_ can't talk. You don't know what's wrong."

Coming closer to the slab of clay didn't bless me with magical Ceramic Vision. It still looked like it just needed a bit more of a massage before _wham_ , it would morph into a mug. Alex's words still stung, so I straightened and crossed my arms.

"Anyone can mould this thing, surely."

I had to open my mouth.

Alex, at first, widened her eyes so much that I thought I might have instead announced my intention to marry Thrym. But then shadows crept across her face, and she grinned. Just for a moment, I could see a spark of Loki in her, brandished like a sword raging in a forge.

"Oh, _really_?" she challenged. "Go on, then."

I froze. "What?"

"Let's see _you_ mould this thing. I was trying to make a ramekin, but if you think you can do better, Maggie, then be my guest. By all means."

She stood up and gestured to her pottery wheel like how a chauffeur opens the door for a client. I might have muttered about the _Maggie_ comment, but now I'd dug myself into a hole, and there was no way Alex was going to let up until I'd thoroughly embarrassed myself.

Still too stubborn to decline, I took a seat on the stool. The pottery wheel was larger up close, a scuffed wheel with clay remains and scalpel scratches. It sat within a larger bowl that contained a moat of dirty water, presumably so the to-be pot would shape more efficiently. The white clay slab seemed more intimidating when I knew I had to shape it. Next to the wheel was a small table with a number of scalpels, spatulas, something that looked like a hairdryer, a bowl of water and a sponge.

Alex grabbed another stool and sat opposite to me. The smuggest grin had been plastered on her face like it had been fired permanently in a kiln.

"First step: shaping." She jerked her head to the foot pedal. "A ramekin."

What the Helheim was that? "You're ramming your kin?"

Alex actually snorted. "You idiot. A _ramekin_. It's a small, round bowl with parallel sides. Holds solid food. You've probably had a crème brûlée in one."

Oh, _those_ things. Their vertical line patterns reminded me of an upside-down chef's hat. I made a face like, _duh, of course I know what that is_ , and pressed my foot onto the pedal. The Lazy Susan-like pottery wheel started to spin, faster and faster, until blur lines crackled around the edges of the white clay. I wet my hands in the bowl of water and reached in.

The clay slid and slipped in my fingers, but it was surprisingly supple. I beamed, pinching and pressing my fingers and hands, and watching the clay mush into a pancake.

"Magnus!" Alex chided. "That's not a ramekin!"

"I'm just getting used to the feeling," I replied. No wonder Alex enjoyed pottery – this was kind of fun.

So, recalling the shape of a ramekin, and I began to work my fingers upwards and press the clay together. But the clay caressed up against my hands, turning back into the egg-shape. I mashed on the foot pedal faster – maybe I didn't have enough speed? – but the wheel spun so fast that the slab flew straight off and decked me in the face.

Clay doesn't taste good, friends. Don't try eating clay. It's like when you're a kid and you try to lick some Wite-Out, because you're curious. No. It's gross. Do not recommend. Zero stars on Yelp.

Alex howled with laughter (if my hallmates didn't wake up before, they must have now). Slapping her knees, she nearly choked on the hyena-like screeches that came out of her mouth.

"Oh my gods, Magnus, you complete _moron!"_

Humiliation washed into me. My big mouth got me here. I stripped the white clay from my face and slapped it back onto the spinning wheel.

I felt like an idiot, sure, but… at least Alex seemed to have cheered up.

The churning in my stomach lessened.

Totally not because it was nice to see Alex happy, though.

She relieved herself of the last snorts. "That was the funniest thing I've seen all week."

"Yeah, yeah." I was pretty sure my face was burning red.

"You don't have any idea how to pottery, do you?"

"It was the _wheel,"_ I retorted, trying to cover my blunder.

Alex waggled her finger. "Oh, but Magnus, _a bad workman blames his tools."_

A fresh wave of embarrassment came over me, and Alex snickered. I had half a mind to run to Alex's bed and hide under the covers, or maybe stick my head into the moat of dirty pot water.

"Fine. This is harder than it looks."

"No kidding. That's why I've been frustrated." She shook her head, dispelling her amusement, and dragged the stool over to me. _In front_ of me. "Look. Let me show you how to get the basic bowl shape."

She sat down, and suddenly, I was completely aware of how sweaty I was. There was a thin stream of air between us – she was petite enough to tuck into me, and her arms were the same length as mine. The scent of lemon shampoo and a light coating of dust flowed into my nose.

I think I was already red-faced, but suddenly it was like an explosion had happened inside me.

Why? Well, it _definitely_ wasn't because she was sitting right in front of me, or anything. The butterflies _definitely_ didn't start to frenzy rave in my stomach. My heart _definitely_ didn't decide to start competing against a marching band beat.

We were so _close_ , though. The green of my pyjamas and the green of her pyjamas blended and blurred in my vision like we'd been spun together on that pottery wheel.

"It's easy once you know how to make a basic shape," she said, softer than she'd been all evening. She dipped her fingers in the water and, gently, she tucked her hands into mine. They fit together like gloves. Her hands weren't dribbling in sweat, though. Instead, they were silky smooth.

"Follow my lead." The order was quiet, but still demanding.

My fingers, nearly intertwined with hers, followed as she brought our hand-hand couple (not like _that_ kind of couple though, pffft) onto the white slab.

"Now, you press the foot pedal. _Slowly_."

I swallowed my pride, my embarrassment, my stomach butterflies, and pumped the foot pedal. The pottery wheel swirled in response, slow at first, before matching the beat of my feet. Alex angled her fingers, mine copying by design, until we had a thick, but smooth, slab of clay.

"To get the bowl shape," she whispered, "you have to press your thumb into the top of the clay. It creates the hole, and then we work outwards to make the correct shape."

I could only nod.

"Cat got your tongue, Maggie?"

"No," I forced out, but my voice was as brittle as the shrapnel of pottery littering the floor around us.

"Stop being so nervous. Jeez," she scolded, but it was gentle.

Smoothly, she guided my thumbs down into the middle of the slab, and pressed. At first, it seemed like nothing had happened, but as the wheel spun, the small indentation grew into a gape of a bowl. Alex's fingers flowed against mine, and she edged the clay with her palms to correct the shape into something cylindrical.

Eventually, we had a basic bowl shape. A ramekin.

It wasn't perfect. Otis might have been able to make a better one than me, even with his goat hooves and crippling self-doubt. But I recognised the beginnings of a bowl that could bloom into greater, more beautiful piece of crockery that all the other bowls would _ooh-la-la_ at.

A sense of accomplishment washed over me, but I was so distracted by our nearly-intertwined hands that I didn't say anything about it. (Though I'm just saying, it wasn't the fact that we were close to holding hands that distracted me. It was obviously the gross feeling of her wet, clay-clod fingers. Yeah.) Alex spoke instead.

"Huh. We did it." The hint of surprise was enough to make me narrow my eyes. "Well, I say _we_ , but let's be honest, _I_ did all the work."

I huffed, wanting to jerk my hands away, but just hesitating to follow through. "Hey, I helped."

The low chuckle in her chest rumbled up her arms, and I could feel it along mine. "If that helps you sleep at night." Another laugh. "Maybe it actually will."

Now that she mentioned it, now that as I tuned out the silly thoughts about the proximity between us, I could feel tiredness swamping me, and my eyes drooping. My insides still clashed together like a gooey mush, but the rest of me was ready to flop down and embrace Dreamland.

Alex halted herself – then, in one swift movement, she pivoted on her stool.

You know, until she was facing me, and our noses were an inch apart.

I'm not sure what face I pulled, but she studied me. My arms were still hovering awkwardly around her, almost like a hug, but I was too arrested by her face to do anything but stare. It was obvious she was tired too, but in those mismatched eyes were a hint of mischief, curiosity, something burning and on fire. A spark of light in a lifetime of darkness.

The moment dragged on, like time had paused, and the seasons had stopped.

Alex let out a breathy laugh, low. Enrapturing.

And then she said, "You have clay on your nose."

Well, that was enough to jerk me awake. My hand shot back to my face so fast I almost knocked her out. The clay piece on my face was miniscule, but still there. It felt like removing a booger I didn't know was on show, and I think my face burnt through every shade of red on the colour spectrum.

Alex howled with renewed laughter, falling back dangerously close to the pottery wheel.

I shot to stand. "Not funny!"

She stood up, taking her stool with her and laughing between her words. "Gods, you are so stupid sometimes."

It wasn't spoken like an insult, but rather, an endearment. One of my best qualities: being stupid. My bottom lip rolled up in distaste, but Alex was too busy wiping her eyes of tears and replacing her stool on the opposite end of the pottery wheel to notice.

"But," she continued, once she'd managed to get a hold of herself, "at least, we made progress." She glanced back at the pot. "I mean, I need to perfect it, and engrave the lines, but… I've overcome my art block. I have my muse back."

And then the world beneath my feet seemed to shift, to jerk and stutter like a love-struck heart.

Alex smiled at me – a crooked shape, like she didn't know what she was doing or how she was doing it, but genuine all the same.

"Thank you."

I snorted, ignoring the activity in the ground below me. It was _definitely_ the earth, even though we were eighteen floors up. "Alex? Saying _thank you_ for something? Look who's the imposter now."

She snorted. "Yeah, yeah." That genuine smile had vanished, replaced with her normal playful attitude. "Now I'm tired, so get out before I throw a pot at your face. You know, like how that slab of clay did."

I stuck out my tongue and tried to leave with some swagger, but that expression of appreciation I saw on Alex's face flashed into my mind, and I think I stumbled out like a drunken Frost Giant rather than with the effortless cool of a Thane.

And as Alex closed the door in the dark corridor, and I was left in silence once more, I was suddenly, really glad that I had woken up to investigate.

Because maybe, just a little part of me, as small as a pottery shard, had wanted to see her again.

* * *

 **A/N:** I started this oneshot in January, and I only finished it recently, but this series grabbed me by the collar and dragged me into Helheim with this ship. I thought I was sorta' done with Riordan, but nooooo. RR, please make them canon, lmao.

Please leave a review if you can, because I love reviews as much as I love the smell of freshly baked brownies (om nom nom). Favourites and follows also appreciated! And if you're here as an anxious TSaTS reader, I promise, I'm still working on it. ;)

Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed it!

~ GWA

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